To Live a Life of Shadows
by Genieva was a Diver
Summary: Donatello, the last of his kind, spends hour upon hour in his underground lair, unperceived by the world above, as always. . . He focuses his attention on his collection, trying to ease the pain of burying three family members, a third gone missing.


_I got this idea while watching some old film reels with my mom. I don't normally do this kinds of stories, but I've been wanting to try something different. I don't think I pulled it off as well as it could have been, but I'm happy with how it turned out. If you have any suggestions or constructive criticism, I would love to hear it. (I don't know if Raph would ever really react this way, I don't know the characters intimately yet, so if there's any way to make this more believable/true to his character I would love to hear what you have to say, and change it!)_

* * *

Donatello woke early, as he always did, and checked the lair for signs of intruders, as he always did. He made himself a cup of tea and, carrying to pieces of raisin bread in one hand, he sat in his recliner. He ate slowly, squinting down into his lap as he tinkered with a piece of electronics. He would need to restock the food, soon, but had enough corn and rice to last him a while longer. The television buzzed in the background, filling the empty air around him.

_'Three dead in a convenience store shoot out. A witness, Rodney Bowens, says he was about to leave his car to pay for gas and purchase a drink for his girlfriend who is pregnant, when he heard gun shots from inside. . .'_

Donatello grimaced and reached for the remote, snapping off the television. He sighed and shook his head. He slowly pulled himself from the armchair, his bones creaking in protest. He could barely stand to watch the news these days; nearly everything left him feeling bitter and depressed.

_If only I were still young_, he thought as he crossed the lair, passing a low shelf filled with books. Some were in good shape, but most were held together by tape at the spine. Years ago, he might have cringed at the very idea, but he learned, eventually, that it was better to love something and to use it, than to isolate and only observe it.

He seated himself at a rickety table, looking pleased as he began to leaf through objects. It always lifted his spirits to count, sort, clean and in some cases fix or reassemble his belongings. First, he sorted through random pieces of jewelry; rings, necklaces, bracelets, and the like, carefully hanging each from a nail in the wall to hang in display. Next, it was time to clean and wind the watches, of which he had twelve, but only three were in working order. He paused, his eyes moving over the golden watch, it's backside open and innards exposed. He regretfully set it aside for later. Unfortunately, later would most likely never come. Over the years, his eyesight had steadily been failing, and it was rare to find an intact pair of glasses in the sewer or junkyard, much less a prescription that would fit him.

A breeze blew through the lair, and he looked up from what he was doing, listening to it whistle past. A few wind chimes tinkled in the background. He grinned, and hauled himself off the wooden stool, flicking on a switch. The lair exploded into light; watches and jewelry and pots and pans sparkling brightly. Nothing brought him more joy. Well… almost nothing.

Suppressing a deep sigh, his eyes stopped on a spot on the far wall that he tended to avoid more often than not. Carefully hung were a katana, what was left of a pair of nun chucks, and one sai. There was nothing left of Splinter's to keep. The thought always upset him.

Leo had died the way they expected to go- in battle. He was buried some twenty feet from the farmhouse, alongside Master Splinter, who had passed years earlier from an infection. Mikey was the third to pass, beaten and strangled to death by a gang of Purple Dragons. It took two days to find him. They were lucky the police hadn't beaten them to it.

And then there was Raph. . . His was always the hardest, mainly because there was no body to bury, no solid answer. He liked to think that maybe Raph had just gotten tired of the life he was leading and vacated, and that maybe his pride and shame had kept him away. It hurt to think that, but Raph had become increasingly violent and out of control following Leo's death. Mikey's just fueled the fire.

_'I can't deal with this anymore, Donnie, I can't. I don't know how you do it. I can't. . . control it. I get so angry, and then I just. . . Explode. I'm scared. I'm scared I'm gonna hurt somebody, **really** hurt somebody.'_

Don felt his chest tighten, felt his eyes begin to water. He sniffed and rubbed the back of his palm across his eyes.

_'If I could just. . . go, get outta here, maybe I could. . . I don't know, this place, it ain't the same. I hate being here, now more than ever. . . I never wanted them to _die_, Don. I can't-I can't be here right now. I gotta go. I'll see you later.'_

And then one morning he just didn't come home. His shell cell, his weights, everything was in its place, undisturbed. It was as if he'd vanished.

He looked in Raph's usual hideouts, but found nothing. He searched for months, years, going as far as he could manage and looking in spots he thought might yield a clue, some sort of hint that would tell him Raphael was still alive. He searched until his youth drained from his body, until he could no longer travel farther than the junkyard, and then he began to collect, in attempts to fill the emptiness inside. And he loved his collection, truly, he did, but he always said he'd give it away in an instant to have his family back.

These days, his things were all he had. Even April had passed away; Casey lived for quite a few years after that, but eventually moved into a nursing home, and visiting was simply out of the question. They often spoke on the telephone, until one day the calls just stopped.

Casey. . . What a guy.

After switching the light back off and returning to his stool, Don leaned down under the table, drawing out a box filled with reels of film. He grunted and heaved a projector up onto the table, then began threading it and fiddling with the reel.

He spent the next hour watching projections of Mr. Magoo on the lair wall.

* * *

_Six months later:_

In a lair of his own, miles away, Raphael stirs, cracking an eye open at the television. He grits his teeth and grabs at his chest, grunting and holding his breath and counting. Damn heart, he thinks, work or give out, stop wasting my time. He opens a beer and takes a swig, hoping to take the edge off.

_'Police uncovered what they're describing as a hideout in the New York City sewer system, filled with objects ranging from household trash to pricy jewelry,' the attractive blond on the television says._

His blood runs cold as he listens to the broadcast. She has his attention, now.

_'I'm told there was a body found, but no one is saying who.'_

"No," he breathes, the bottle shattering on the floor. "Don. It can't be."

_'The body was immediately taken into custody. Police are saying it's more than likely a homeless or a runaway, but no one has heard anything definitive. . . Here's what onlookers have to say: 'Well, I think someone maybe was doing something they weren't supposed to, and got a little in over their heads. Maybe they were injured, I don't know, but-''_

"Don. . .I'm. . . I'm the only one left," he says aloud, dazed, falling back into his chair. "They took him. They took him. The bastards," he screams, his fists shaking uncontrollably, "The bastards, they took him! Oh, God. . . Donnie, I'm sorry. I shoulda stayed. I shoulda. . . I shoulda stayed. . . _Why_ didn't I stay?"

_I'm alone_, he realises, truly alone, and for the first time in his life, he's terrified.

"I'm all that's left," he says numbly, sinking into his chair as darkness swallowing him whole.


End file.
